Through The Trees
by DiscoLemonadeDiva
Summary: She's Evil... And not just High School Evil. After a tragic fire, Bella Swan is thrust into a world not even her relationship with Edward could have prepared her for.
1. Prologue

P R O L O G U E

I watch Angela as the van door closes.

She's staring at me. Eyes wide. Mouth open. She's known what it takes this long to conceptualize. I won't be seeing much more of Angela.

I commit this girl to memory, she's the only person that understands me anymore. A floral cami covers a long sleeve thermal shirt. Jeans that are much more practical than my short skirt and patterned tights hang low on her body.

She runs a hand through her frizzy mop of hair.

I stare at the door, wishing the windows weren't painted black so that I could watch Angela as we pull away.

..

The lead singer who looked so much more appealing on Facebook is twirling a knife between his fingers. I tell him I'm a virgin, I tell him he wants someone with more experience, I tell him that he doesn't want me. He tells me I'm perfect.

..

I'm feeling more than a little inebriated by the time the van stops. The lead singer tucks his knife away long enough to drag me from the van. I can barely see the ground beneath me, let alone navigate the barren pathway. I thrash and shout. Edward tells me it's not enough, I need to kick harder, yell louder. Edward tells me I'm not enough.

The lead singer dislocates my left shoulder dragging me down the trail. My patterned tights are frayed and ripped. There is a huge tear up the side of my skirt. My ears strain to hear the sound of running water. It isn't until we reach a round circular clearing that I am free to move on my own.

The lead singer tells me his name is Nikolai Wolfe. I know this. He is so much hotter on Facebook.

The keyboardist tells me his name is Colin. The drummer, guitarist, and base introduce themselves as Chas, Dirk, and Mick.

My new friends tell me I'm their virgin sacrifice. They tell me I will make them famous. They start singing.

I try to tell them this is all a big mistake. I'm not even an anal virgin anymore thanks to Roman. They can't hear me over the sound of their singing.

The lead singer takes his lucky knife and plunges it into my stomach.

I can't hear their singing over the sound of my screams.

..

When I wake up, I can see stars. The shinning masses gleam. What little we see of stars is fiction. A death star is still visible days, years, decades after its demise. Even after its collapsed into a red dwarf or giant, formed into a black hole of energy, evolved into a degenerate form. Visible to us still even in its death. Immortal. Until the days, years, decades catch up and we are finally able to see the truth hidden by time and space. The star that we have longed to grasp has dissolved into something else entirely and is forever out of reach.

I wonder if this is heaven. If stars are heaven.

My skin crawls.

There are hands on my body. Pulling, dragging me. The sound of running water draws nearer. I am thrown haphazardly into the swells and sucked into Charybdis' eternal boughs.

..

When I wake up, I am wet. My once beautiful patterned tights are caked with blood and torn. My shirt is worse off than the tights. I can stick my fingers through the places the knife penetrated my skin and my shirt by default. If it wasn't for the smeared blood, it could almost pass as vintage. I lift up the shirt, smoothing my hands over my stomach. I pull the shirt back down, shoving my fingers through the cuts. Where evidence of my assault should be there is only tanned, smooth skin. I glance at my fingers, my arms, what little of my legs can be seen through my patterned tights. My ivory foundation isn't going to cut it anymore.

And neither were my clothes for that matter. My size six skirt was sliding off my body and the only place my shirt fit right was in the bust.

I glanced at the face reflected in the puddle I was lying in. The face staring back at me was alien. My lips were fuller and red without the aid of gloss or lipstick, my face was pore less even in the poor reflection, cheekbones that were only visible when Alice played Bella Barbie were prominent.

It's during this brief moment that I allow myself to hope. I glance at my eyes for conformation and the misery I feel at this strange conformation is staggering. My eyes are no longer the color I associate with dirt, they are lively and have specks of gold and green in them.

The hair that had previously been a haystack is now smooth and full of life. The body that Alice coaxed out of my hair is prominent despite the twigs, leaves, and blood matted into my tresses. They are as silky as they look. I begin to pick out the offending materials, combing my hair with my fingers as I go along.

Its during that moment that someone creeps upon me. Placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. I look at his reflection, mirrored next to mine.

Tyler Crowley.

The African exchange student seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

And suddenly there only seems one thing sensible to ask him.

"Does anybody know you're alive?"

He looks into my eyes, and backs away frightened. The beautiful brown eyes I had grown so accustomed to are gone, replaced by silver irises.

I look up from the puddle, stalking towards him.

He's afraid. I know this fear, I have felt this fear. I tell him it's going to be OK. I tell him it will all be over soon. I tell him the lies I wanted to hear.

I stalk closer, swinging my hips. He is petrified. He is immobile. He is responsive. When I shove my tongue down his throat he thrashes about, fights. I bite down. Hard. Suckling the blood he offers, thinking it's not enough, it will never be enough. My lips sink into the flesh near his neck. My hands tear the flesh from his back, and release him when he is cold and drained. Feeling well fed and powerful. I glance back at the puddle, which has been diluted by blood. Tainted. I have never seen someone as beautiful as the person who stares back.

..

I play with Angela to distract myself. Her blood is especially attractive to me. I have opened up Pandora's box. I search through her fridge trying to find something more appealing to me than her blood. I shove the chicken down my throat. Do not eat Angela Webber.

Suddenly I can't breathe, a stream of black ferromagnetic fluid shoots out of my mouth. I wonder if my head is secure in its location on my shoulders.

The look on Angela's face is one I can't describe. She is siphoning through a multitude of facial expressions. Guilt. Remorse. Shock. Despair. Disgust.

I can't look at her anymore.

She calls out after me.

I don't turn around.

I don't pass go.

I don't collect $200.

I run.

I run to the place that used to be so symbolic of my love for _him_ and I collapse in a heap on the forest floor. My ears watery, but not overflowing. I dry sob.

And when the sun sets over the horizon, I run some more.


	2. Roman Duda

C H A P T E R O N E - Roman Duda

"I won't let you do this," Angela looks into my wide eyes, hers steeled.

She's expecting me to fight.

There is no fight in me left.

I merely turn to face her. She's wearing a peasant blouse, blue jeans, and Chucks. She slides a tray of food towards me as she plops down on the chair next to mine.

"You are going to eat this _shit_, or I will shove it down your throat. I can't watch you do this to yourself anymore."

I had never heard Angela swear before.

I take the _shit_ from her and take a generous bite, peeling off half and handing it to her.

She raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment.

I wonder if she'd noticed _they_ never seem to eat anything, their trays filled with food they can never digest. Fork meet pizza. I wonder if she'd noticed how they played with their food, biding their time until the bell rings and they rise unceremoniously, gracefully, dumping their props of uneaten food as they exit the cafeteria. Spoon meet yoghurt. I wonder if she'd ever been the prop, the tool, the means to the end.

Together, Angela and I eat everything on the tray.

..

By the end of the week I fill out my favorite pair of hip hugging jeans that I had abandoned after _they_ left. My favorite bras and thongs fit comfortably. The sundresses I tucked into my suitcase with little intention of ever wearing are snug on my body. My ribs aren't protruding from my body anymore. I look healthy.

Angela is brushing my hair, her fingers combing through the strands.

Her warm body presses against my back on my bed.

She doesn't treat me like a doll, like her own personal Bella Barbie. The movements of her hands are comforting; my scalp is tingling, not burning. Angela _is_ my friend. Not a psychic pixie who molds me into the shape of the day. I can't recall spending more than a couple of hours with any of the Cullen's other than Edward. Not even Alice. Little Alice who spun illusions of friendship and family. Of bonds that grow stronger through time and never wane. Of Edward. Of eternity.

Angela is actually my friend. There is no grandeur. There is only me and Angela.

Sweet human, lovable, Angela. She isn't going to phase into a giant wolf or try to eat me for dinner.

It's funny how the thing I missed most about the Cullen's is how human they made me seem. When you're eating lunch with vampires, being born middle aged and tripping over your own feet seems normal in comparison.

Angela finishes combing my hair with her fingers and works on braiding my strands. I arch my back as she tugs a little too hard on my hair.

"Sorry," she murmurs into my hair.

She taps my shoulders when she's finished, pirouetting off my bed and grabbing the lime green Gucci I bought her for Christmas.

I'm off the bed just as fast, rushing over to the floor length mirror in the corner of my room.

"You don't think this is too much skin?" I question my reflection, my hands tugging at the shorts that my ass cheeks are practically falling out of.

"You look hot Bella, Roman is going to flip." She pushes me out of the way of the floor length mirror so that she can admire how perky her boobs look in her costume.

My hands reach towards the heart shaped locket that adorns my neck. I grasp it softly, twirling it between my fingers. Thinking about Roman.

..

The thing about Roman Duda is that he met me at my very worst. Roman Duda found me after _they_ left, after _he_ left. Roman Duda carried me bridal style to the hospital and called my father.

Roman Duda stayed long enough after my father arrived and the nurses and doctors looked me over and gave me a clean bill of health to program my number into his phone and invite me to dinner.

Me with my blue lips and gooseflesh. Me with this invisible hole crippling me.

..

Friday night turned into next Saturday, turned into next Tuesday. The thing about Roman Duda is that he's become a central piece in my life. The reason that the crippling hole didn't spread, devouring the parts of me that were previously spared by _his_ departure. Roman Duda became a replacement.

Roman Duda also became the ticket to all the social events in Forks that were once unavailable to us. Friday night keg parties. Drinks at the Roadhouse.

Angela and I wrestle with the mirror in my rusty Ford. Applying lipstick and retouching mascara and primping hair. Our heads pressed together. A knock promptly separates us. Angela smears lipstick down her chin, the tube of mascara drags down my cheek.

Startled, we both look towards the window. Ben's standing outside with a grin plastered on his face, his hand held over his open mouth in mock horror. Angela and I turn back towards the mirror, fixing our faces, before climbing out of the beast.

Angela propels herself into Ben's awaiting arms and I'm allowed a moments worth of jealousy before I am scooped off the ground and into a pair of muscular arms. I squeal in surprise.

Roman sniffs my hair, his stubble brushing against my neck. The next thing I know he's peppering kisses along my jaw.

"Laura Croft huh?" He whispers into my skin.

I mumble incoherently.

The thing about Roman Duda is that he's built like a Mack truck and has the face of a GQ model. If it weren't for the natural tan and cerulean eyes, I'd think the blood pumping through my veins was the motivation for his seemingly undying affection.

And I'm staring into his cerulean eyes, my hands grazing his stubble, my thumbs brushing his lips, my lips replacing my thumbs.

"You coming?" Angela questions, dancing in Ben's arms at the newly opened door.

Strobe lights flash incessantly. Decibels shake cement.

I watch as a drunken woman stumbles outside, fingers grasping the door frame, huddled over momentarily. She makes it as far as the steps before she empties her stomach.

I cringe and bury my face in Roman's muscular chest. He swings my legs out from under me, draping them over his arms. One moment my feet are planted firmly on the ground, and the next Roman is carrying me up the steps. His lips distracting me from noticing the woman doubled over, heaving chunks. Roman makes it easy to forget. Everything. I snuggle closer into his chest, his arms enclosing me, protecting me. And together we cross the threshold.

..

I remember this night fondly. This is the moment I decide Roman Duda will be my first. Everything. The first time I have to walk with a slight limp in my step because my boyfriend has the stamina of a race horse. The first time I have to forgo school in favor of sitting a bag of peas because my ass is pounding. The first time, in a long time, I can look in the mirror and see me, not the ragdoll the Cullen's left behind.

**A/N: **Sorry I didn't post this sooner. I didn't know where I wanted to go with this story and the muses were not cooperating. I was going to include the Cullen's but there is another "Jennifer's Body" fic that goes into that territory, so don't expect Alice and Edward to swoop in and save the day… anytime soon at least. This story is going to be entirely from Bella's POV, and will not have much, if any, Bella/Jacob, because my Bella would probably eat him, and I love Jake too much to write his murder…. Tyler, Mike, and Eric on the other hand? Roman and the band mates from Low Shoulder are the only characters from Jennifer's Body that will be in this story. I didn't want to make Jake into a character that Bella abuses in order to get what she wants and get over the Cullen's.

And now that you are all bored to death by the AN, I should inform you that the next chapter should hopefully be up next week. I've already started on it, and have an idea of where I'm going with this fic so, expect something next Wednesday.


	3. Normal

C H A P T E R T W O – N O R M A L

Phil became my sponsor.

Tiffany bracelets.

Seven jeans.

The only thing my shiny black credit card couldn't buy was a brand spanking new complexion. Pores mocked my new and improved image. Chapped lips lacked moisture to no fault of the copious amounts of gloss smeared over them. Sparkled eyes seemed dim and dull. I had haystack hair.

I was normal. Human… almost.

Fragile.

I haven't felt this way since _they_ left.

I haven't felt this way since Nikoli Wolfe took me out into the forest.

I haven't felt this way since I was partially eviscerated and dumped into the whirlpool.

..

The thing about Forks, WA is that the place is named after two rivers. Well one river actually, that forks, hence the name of the town, down the middle and separates the town from the nearby La Push reservation.

Technically one of these rivers isn't normal. Water flows from the river into this hole and it doesn't come out.

These scientist guys dropped all kinds of things down there, but nothing ever surfaces.

Angela tells me it's another dimension.

I tell her it's probably, you know, just really, _really_ deep.

..

"I heard they're like, heroes or something," Jessica says. Smacking her teeth around a piece of Stride Mandarin Orange.

Lauren clomps down on Five Rain. "Totally, like Superman, only Nikoli Wolfe would look like sooo much better in spandex."

"This is a dark, dark day for Devil's Kettle. And believe me you, I have lived through some pretty heavy stuff," Mr. Molina begins class saying.

Jessica twirls a curly strand between her forefinger. No doubt imagining the abovementioned leader of Indie band Low Shoulder adorned in red and blue.

Me? Well I prefer to imagine all the ways I could impale Nikoli Wolfe. And maybe Jessica and Lauren as well while I'm at it.

"We lost eight precious students, including Tyler from India, several parents, and our beloved Spanish teacher, Señorita Erickson," Mr. Molina says. Droning on and on and on.

"No way. Erickson ate shit?" Lauren asks giggling with Jessica.

I grind my teeth, turning to Angela.

I call her name. Poke her shoulder with a perfectly manicured finger.

"Now more than ever, put aside your teenage concerns, about who's a cool dude, or who's a ho. We can't let that damn fire win."

"It already won," Lauren snarks. Jessica giggles. Gag.

Angela doesn't acknowledge my presence. Angela is shaking like a leaf. Angela is looking at her nails as if they are more important than me. Which they are most certainly not.

Her nails are, however, disgusting to say the least.

"Eww, fuck. You need a mani bad," I tell her as I take out a pen, holding it between my teeth while I search my purse for a piece of paper. I scribble out a note for Angela, admiring the loopy lettering, and slide it over to her. She glances up at me, wide eyed. Still shaking.

"That," I tell her, "is the number of the person who does my nails."

She opens her mouth to protest, and I wave off her unimportant words.

"You need a Chinese chick to buff that situation," I say.

She's looking at me like I'm not really there. She's looking at me like I'm faded into the distance, time and space upholding appearances. She's looking at me like I'll disappear at any moment. And I might.

Because really, I know this is my fault. And I can still taste the black ferromagnetic liquid pooling behind my teeth, even though I have brushed by them twenty three times already, and am nursing a piece of Orbit Positively Pomegranate.

"God bless you kids," Mr. Molina says.

I glance at Angela's crusted black nails, my hands fidgeting. She isn't chewing any gum. I offer her a piece that she declines.

She's back to staring at her nails again. Shaking like a leaf. Pale and colorless. Lifeless. Pathetic. _Needy_. And talking to herself. Muttering about how it was real. Muttering about how she scrubbed the linoleum all night. Muttering shoot.

The strong person who succeeded in piecing me together when Edward had left and Jacob had chosen his brothers over me, well she's been reduced to this blubbering mess of infectious waste.

Visions gloss my eyes over. Visions of baseball and happiness and hiking and forests and heartache. Visions of Edward and Jacob and Roman.

And looking at Angela. I see myself. My old hair, dull, frizzy, and lifeless. My old lips, chapped and weathered. My old eyes, plain and brown and obscured by a pair of oval lenses. And Angela, in a matter of seconds, she's been reduced to me.

And in an effort to see her as herself again, I stand up.

"Miss Swan," Mr. Molina says. "I suggest you sit down."

He's mad because I've interrupted his speech about the victims of the Melody Lane fire. He's mad because over the summer a bear tore his arm off, and he's been reduced to using a hook in order to sustain right arm movement.

I simply smile at him, a toothy smile. My lips pulling up in a snarl. Utilizing my levator labii muscles. Muscles which I am certain have never been used before.

"Please don't talk to yourself. It's one of your more freakishly _needy_ behaviors and it makes us both look like total gaylords," I tell her. Snarling.

And I simply leave.

..

Just three months ago, me, Angela, and her boyfriend, Ben, were completely normal people. We were our yearbook pictures. Nothing more, nothing less.

That was before I'd transferred back to Forks.

That was before I'd discovered what Edward Cullen was. Before I'd discovered _who_ Edward Cullen was.

People found it hard to believe that a "babe like me," Tyler's words not mine, would associate with a dork like Angela Webber.

But the thing about sandbox love? It never dies.

..

By the time sixth period rolls around "Needy" is the word on everyone's tongue. Mike, who TA's in the office to keep up his GPA, altered Angela's digital transcripts to include her new title. It's like the name Angela doesn't exist. Like it's a taboo subject no one wants to talk about.

Mike corners me after school. Laughing. He wants to know if I've seen _Needy _anywhere.

Someone carrying a teddy bear, sniffling, barricades past us. It isn't until they leave, and I'm staring at their ass, that I notice the jersey. Big letters spelling out T. Spelling out Y. Spelling out L. Spelling out E. Spelling out R. Spelling out T Y L E R.

Mike's laughter is short lived. Tears coming down his face, he turns to look at me.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, reassuring. I lead him beyond the school. Into the forest.

Telling him how I was there last night, at Melody Lane. Telling him that I was probably the last person to talk to him ever.

Telling him that Tyler, the last thing he ever said was that we would be a totally banging couple.

"He said banging?" Mike wonders.

Deep in the forest, leaves falling around us, I pull down the zipper of my yellow jacket.

A rabbit scurries up to the clearing I've led Mike too. A deer on its tail.

Telling Mike to, "feel my heart." Moving his hand to cover my breast.

Birds fly overhead, chirping.

"I think it's broken" I tell him.

Insects swarm the area.

Sniffing up his neck. Running my tongue along his ear.

A common variety garden snake slithers over.

"Mine too," he says.

And animals surrounding us, I open my mouth wide and take a bite.


	4. Burning

**Sorry for the late update! I just got back from visiting Mexico. Not the parts where people are being decapitated and having their body parts chopped off. FYI, Mazatlan, Mexico. Which is safe and totally beautiful. The next chapter should be up sooner, as I'm not going to be out of the county. Thank you everyone who reads and reviews. I love you. But anyways, A/N over. On with the chapter.**

..

C H A P T E R T H R E E — B U R N I N G

The screams are what haunt me the most when I sleep.

The smell of flesh, I'm used to. The smell of flesh is familiar. Flesh burning reminds me of my seventh birthday when I wanted to light the candles on my birthday cake and wound up lighting my dress instead. Flesh burning reminds me of the smell of James, dead, Alice holding his head between her small delicate fingers.

Don't even get me started on the familiarity of the sound of bones cracking. The small hospital in Forks, WA had a room reserved for little Bella Swan.

But that was before, before my mom decided that spontaneity could not be found in a place like Forks. Before she woke me up in the middle of the night, before she tossed me the Hello Kitty duffle from Mr. and Mrs. Webber and told me to pack my things, my life into a small suitcase. Before I was sleepily grasping my BFF necklace between my chubby fingers, wishing I could say goodbye to Angela, as my mother drove us to the airport.

..

Angela used to live in Newport. She'd later tell me she knew there was something wrong with Mr. Nikoli Wolf. She'd later tell me he was skinny and twisted and evil. Like this petrified tree that she had in her backyard as a kid.

And I'd retort, "aren't we all skinny and twisted and evil." Because there was a time when we were innocent, when I'd pricked my finger on a tack in the sandbox that rested in the backyard of Mr. and Mrs. Webber's new backyard, in Forks, WA, and Angela had licked the blood away, kissed my wound and told me it would all be OK. But my innocence was washed away in the fire and the events following.

Because the truth is that youth isn't wasted on the young, it's wasted, eternally, on the dead.

..

I sit in front of my vanity mirror.

The phone is pressed between my silky smooth hair and my hard sinewy shoulder.

Angela is on the line. She's honestly the only one who puts up with my shit anymore.

"I feel so scrumptious," I tell her.

"Goody for you," she snarks back.

"You know when a boy kisses you for the first time and it feels like your entire body is on vibrate?" I wonder aloud.

I play with the Zippo that I found in Jacob's garage when he was still talking to me and hadn't begun pretending that I didn't exist.

"Yeah," she deadpans.

"It's like that."

"Well that's nice," she says. "Me, I'm still a little bit depressed about, you know, the giant, smoldering funeral pyre in the middle of town."

"Move-on-dot-org, Needy. Life is too short to be moping around about some white-trash pig roast."

The words are coming out but my mind is far off. My mind is remembering the searing, burning feeling I felt on my birthday when I was turning seven. Remembering the smell.

"That's sweet Bella," her tone says anything but.

"You know I tell it like it is," I tell her. "And besides, you know what? You should be happy for me because I am having the best day ever since Jesus invented the calendar."

I watch myself in the vanity.

"Jesus didn't invent the calendar," she says.

"Whatever," I roll my eyes at the mirror.

I move to raise the lighter to my tongue, a beeping sound distracting me. I watch as the lighter falls, my lightening fast reflexes recover the lighter before it reaches the ground.

"Fuck," I exclaim surprised.

Angela's voice tells me how someone's on the other line.

My voice tells Angela to blow it off.

Angela's voice doesn't say anything, but the beeping noise that signifies the changeover in lines tells soo much more than Angela ever could.

Angela has blown me off instead.

I wonder if this is what we've been reduced to.

Listening to "Through the Trees," come out of the cellular, I grind my teeth together.

The beeping signifies that Angela has decided to grace my lowly self with her presence.

"I gotta go," she says.

I tell her, "I am a god."

Distracted, ignoring me, she tells me, "I gotta meet Ben at McCollum park."

And the phone, that ringtone, her thinking Ben is more important than me. I grind my teeth. And playing nonchalant tell her, "You know Ben is looking really cute to me lately. So tell me, is he, uh, like, packing some serious pubic inches? What's the story down there?" The words are out my mouth before I can stop them. And part of me is glad that I am reasserting my power over Angela. The other part realizes with a stab to my heart, that Sandbox love _does_ in fact end. Painfully.

"I gotta go," she repeats, but doesn't hang up. The sound of sirens wailing outside catches her attention. "Why are the cops at your house?"

I mess with the lighting mechanism. Alternately flicking it open and flicking it closed.

"You mean besides the obvious?" I question. My father is the Chief of Police after all. She doesn't dignify that with a response and I continue on. "They're not. They're at Mike Newton's place."

"Why? He try to sell fake peyote to the eighth graders again?"

"No Needy. He was murdered."

"What?"

"Yeah. Someone ripped Mike limb from limb in the woods behind the school. They ate parts of him. No one's even supposed to know yet, but my dad just went over there, and well having the chief of Police as your dad has its perks. His mom is, supposedly, like, catatonic. She's just staring out the front window like a zombie mannequin robot statue." Like me when Edward left, I think. But I don't tell her this.

Instead I raise the lighter higher up, closer to my mouth. To my face.

"This can't be a coincidence."

"What are you going on about Needy?"

"A fiery death trap last night and now a cannibal psycho takes down the biggest guy in school? Come on. It's freaktarded. Well, the bad luck's gotta be over, right? I mean, it can't get any worse, right? It can't. I mean, you agree, right?"

"I gotta go," she presses on, not waiting for an answer. I can tell that she is shaken.

I light the contraption, raising it further, sticking my tongue out as far as it can go. Pressing the flame to my tongue, expecting everything, and yet feeling nothing.

The beep signaling a changeover from her position as my BFFL to Ben's rings in my ear.

I watch as my tongue turns black, crackling. As the natural texture and pink color return to the previously burnt appendage.

"I am a god." I say again. But this time Angela isn't on the line and I am the only one listening.

..

The days marched on as usual but most of us were to numb to enjoy ourselves.

Most of us, anyways.

To the rest of the world, we were famous. We were saints.

The closest thing to a bar in our town had burned to the ground and our town's star linebacker was somebody's Snack Pack.

The whole country got a big tragedy boner for Forks, WA.

And the press? God, they couldn't get enough of our little world of shit.

Still we were healing. Most of us were anyways.

Like Needy, most people figured things could only get better.

They had faith.

They were fucking idiots.


	5. Pores

C H A P T E R F O U R — P O R E S

"Before the period ends, I'd like to make an announcement. As you all know, today is the one month anniversary... of the tragedy at Melody Lane... and the murder of Mike Newton."

"Boring," my voice rings out. Any bell like qualities it might have possessed are gone. My tone is dull and flat and _human_.

"Jesus," Jessica begins.

Lauren finishes with, "what a bitch!"

"As I was saying, Jennifer and Needy," he pauses long enough to throw us both a patronizing look before continuing on with his speech. "I finally have some good news to share with all of you. The members of the rock and roll group Low Shoulder have decided to extend a helping hand to our community. As you all know, their song, 'Through The Trees,' has become our unofficial anthem of unity and healing. And they have decided to release it as a benefit single. Three percent of the profits will go to local families who have been affected by loss."

"What about the other 97 percent? I mean that's just crass right?" Needy questions, baffled.

At the blank looks of the classmates, and Mr. Molina, our science teacher I elaborate, "Crass. It means greedy, exploitive, scummy."

"Like, no way would, like, crass and Low Shoulder even, like, exist in the same world as, like, each other." Every other word coming out of Jessica's mouth is 'like.'

"Low Shoulder are totally American heroes..." She trails off, as if distracted by steady stream of air breezing through her ears. "Like totally," she says finally. Every other word coming out of her mouth is 'totally.'

I roll my eyes. Sneering, "me thinks thou dost protesteth too mucheth." It's been 29 days and 7 hours and 45 minutes since I took a big bite out of Mike Newton and already my voice is sounding dull and flat.

Needy, bless her heart, refutes Lauren and Jessica's claims. Says, how we were there. Says, how they didn't help anyone escape the fire. Says, how it's all just one big rumor. Says, how they probably started the fire.

"Rumor?" Jessica screeches. "Rumor?" She's standing up in her seat, indignant. I roll my eyes, surprised that she completed a sentence without 'like' stuffed in between every other word.

I haven't looked in a mirror for weeks, but it's like I can just f_eel_ the imperfections marring my once perfect face.

"It's totally true," Lauren sneers, flipping her dull and oily hair behind her shoulders. "It's on the Wikipedia."

"We wouldn't even know who they were if they weren't playing that night. They used us."

Jessica is off her seat so fast that it falls backward. Recoiling off of the floor. Her pointer aimed at my bestie, she screeches, "you take that back Needy Webber!"

I am boiling inside, I dubbed thee Angela Webber, Needy, and I feel protective of the name now that it is being used in vain by Jessica.

"Girls-" Mr. Molina reprimands.

"We need them now more than ever," Lauren drones on, admiring her nails. Which are short and stubby.

My nails, which are sharp, even though they are no longer perfectly manicured, grate into the surface of the desk.

"That's enough!" Mr. Molina shouts. He is drowned out by the sound of the bell going off, and in an instant we are all out of our seats.

"I'm already sick of that song," Needy tells me.

"Yeah, it's really poorly produced. I mean could the bass be any lower in the mix?" I question.

"No offense," Needy says. "But you look really tired. Is everything OK?"

"No, I feel like boo-boo." I tell her. Suddenly feeling as horrible as I'm sure I look at this point. "My skin is breaking out, and my hair is dull and lifeless. God, it's like I'm one of the normal girls." I say this so casually I almost flip my shit. Dropping words like normal like I'm not… Normal that is.

Needy takes this as a comment about my self-assuredness, my beauty. My dominant attitude, my usual dose of bitchiness.

"Are you PMSing or something?" She wonders idly.

"PMS isn't real Needy." I give her a scathing look. "It was invented by the boy-run media to make us seem crazy."

"Don't look at me like that," I tell her. Paranoid all of a sudden. Jittery.

"It's just wearing off or something," I mumble to myself. Sneaking a glance at myself in Needy's glasses. Even in the small frames I can tell that I look seriously fucked up.

"What's wearing off?" Needy wonders, interrupting my musing.

"Hello, Needy." Erik greets, all slick black hair and pierced and emo and shit.

"Hi," she greets him in return.

"Jennifer," he says, biting his lip, running his tongue over his piercing. Looking up and down my body.

"Erik," I reply. Bored. Admiring the network of bluish colored strings weaving up his neck.

"Can I borrow your English homework again? I forgot to read Hamlet." He says, running his hand through his hair. Flicking his tongue from between his teeth, licking his lips.

"Is he gonna fuck his mom?" I question with a blank look. Practically drooling at the sight of Erik Yorkie. At the sight of his carotid artery. At the sight of his yummy blood running through his veins.

"No— I don't— I don't— I don't think so." He says, chuckling lightly. He turns to me, smirking, and says, "Um, I actually wanted to ask you something."

"You wanna know if I'll go out with you?"

He tries to protest, but is stopped by my indigent snort. Tyler Yorkie is not the first to proposition me and will certainly not be the last.

Roman, he used to keep the sharks at bay, his presence alone enough to ward off the unwanted affection offered by other boys.

Roman with his bulging biceps and 6'5" height, he could keep Muhammad Ali from fucking with me.

"How'd you know," he wonders. Tonguing the metal adorning his lower lip.

"Just go ahead with the pitch."

"Okay. Um— well, we've been having a lot of fun in class, you and I, and I thought that maybe you'd like to go see a movie or something. There's a, uh, midnight showing of Rocky Horror at the Bijou next weekend—"

"I don't like boxing movies," I cut him off.

"Yeah, but it's not— it's not a... fucking boxing movie. Um, fuck it. Okay. Forget it." He mutters, sauntering off. I admire the way that the purplish blue swirls travel up and down his forearms as he walks away. A month later, and I'm feeling the effects of not feeding.

"That was random," Needy cuts in.

"I'm used to boys asking me out Needy," I tell her. Because pre and post Roman Bella attracted a lot of attention.

"Erik is really nice."

"He's into maggot rock. He wears nail polish. My dick is bigger than his."

"Well, I think that he's really cool."

"You do?" I wonder, incredulous.

"Yeah."

"Wait, Erik." I call out after him. "Why don't you come by my place tonight? I just got Aquamarine on DVD. It's about a girl who's half-sushi. I guess she has sex through her blow hole or something."

"OK," he says, smiling crooked.

"OK," I chorus. Telling him, "I'll text you my address."

..

I'm standing half-naked in my lingerie, a spoonful of Half-Baked between my teeth, when Erik walks into "my place." Really, it's a drug house my father busted a year and a half ago that no one claimed. It's been abandoned ever since the drug raid and doesn't have a door from where the police knocked the old one down. In summary it is a piece of shit but has the added advantage of being void of a certain chief of police snoring in one of the bedrooms.

"You made it," I tell him, admiring the way his pants bulge in response to my lack of clothing. I saunter up to him, grasping the carton of ice cream in one hand and the spoon in the other.

"This isn't really your house is it?"

"No baby," I purr, slipping a spoonful of Half-Baked between his lips. "This is our house, just for you and me." The spoon in his mouth, my other hand free, I rip open his shirt, the buttons falling on the ground. I dip my hand into the carton, lathering it with ice cream, smoothing Ben & Jerry's over the planes of Erik's chest. "We can play Mommy and Daddy," I whisper into his ear.

"Do you even know my last name?"

"Yorkie," I whisper to him, my tongue capturing the ice cream from his chest. "I've been sending you signals all year. Couldn't you tell? You give me such a wettie." I tell him, moaning into his chest.

He's distracted by the mouse that skitters across the floor. By the insects surrounding the candles that I lit for lighting. For incense. For a romantic vibe.

"What? Are you scared? I thought boys like you were supposed to be really into vermin and death and shit." I tell him.

I slide the zipper of his jeans down, telling him, "Nice hardware Ace."

Capturing his mouth in mine. Leading him towards the bed. This is all happening so fast and not fast enough.

My mouth on his neck, on the network of veins that drew us together. I tell him, "I need you frightened."

My hands taking off his pants. I tell him, "I need you hopeless."

My mouth opening wider, my tongue running along my sharp teeth. I tell him, "hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless."

Me pushing him into the mattress in the corner of the room. Me straddling his thighs, my hands pressing him into the mattress with holes on it from who knows where, I take a bite into Erik Yorkie.

Telling him, "hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless." Until his pulse is gone and his body turns cold.

Still in my underwear. Covered in blood. Erik's blood. I retrieve the Half-Baked from where I left in the middle of the room. Sitting next to Erik's body, my bloody hands dipping into the carton. I suck on my ice cream covered fingers.

Telling him," hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless."


	6. Ginger

C H A P T E R F I V E — G I N G E R

It's funny how when your snack pack has a city tag, no one goes looking for them.

Ellis Townsend.

Donovan Wright.

It's been forty eight hours and no one has filed a police report.

Aiden Barnes.

Michael Elliot.

It's been three weeks and no one's posted a flyer.

James Welch.

Mitch Parker.

It's been a month. These are not the types of names you'd find on a milk carton.

..

The bass rattles my brain inside of my skull. I can't think beyond moving my feet in front of me. I can't think beyond sipping the drink in my hand.

What I'm here for is beyond thought, beyond feeling. It's been a while since I've had to rely solely on instinct.

Mainstreaming doesn't require these skills. The close attention to detail, the total recall, none of it is necessary in normal society. The sense of smell rendered useless, unused in search for prey. Humans don't have to look further than their pantry or a grocery store or JIB (Jack in the Box) or McDonalds. Humans, they make it so easy with their dulled senses and intuitions. A people so entirely rooted in science, they tended to ignore their baser instincts. Things like intuition were persecuted, people who showed an abstract view of world committed and institutionalized. Having everything handed to them, having everything they'd ever need an arm's length away has made them sloppy.

Most humans brush off any bad vibes that permeate the air surrounding me in favor of basking in my good looks and natural perfume. Men especially are known to be perfectly willing to ignore their nautre in favor of fulfilling a more baser instinct. In a society in which sex among acquaintances is natural, hunting is made even easier still.

This is what I'm banking on for my fill.

Humans had everything that they needed at the tips of their fingers; I needed to reach a little further than that.

Seattle. Port Angeles. Olympia.

It's amazing what you can get a human being to ignore, to disregard. It's amazing how a human being will follow me into the dark.

..

It's ten o'clock on a Friday night. Movie night. Me and Roman would sit in the way back in the theatre in Port Angeles and throw popcorn at each other and make out.

I try not to think about Roman Duda, something that I've been doing a lot of recently.

..

Tonight's flavor of the week reminds me of Edward Cullen. With his messy mop of bronze sex hair and green eyes and strong masculine jaw.

He will die slowly.

Painfully.

..

Sunday's were shopping night. We'd travel to Port Angeles. Roman holding my hand in his so that it wasn't on his crotch. He'd buy me frilly lingerie under the condition that he could see it on me first. With my boobs popping out, my ass hanging out, I had never been more in love with him.

I try really, _really_ hard not to think about Roman Duda. It seems that when I'm alone I can't think about anything else.

..

The striking resemblance to my former flame is what pulls me to him. It is not, however, the strange looks that keep my attention. But rather the entrancing scent.

My nostrils flare. My lips pull up into a snarl. My mouth waters.

Swallowing the liquid in my mouth. Rubbing my legs together. A fleeting thought runs through my mind, before I can stop it.

Is this what my scent was like to Edward Cullen?

The liquid ambrosia pumping through this sack of meat tempts me like nothing else.

I can't decide whether his scent is more akin to heaven or hell.

Not that I believe in either.

Eventually, in what seems like forever, though only a few minutes have passed since I have laid eyes on the doppelganger of my ex and laid out his fate, I decide it doesn't matter.

Heaven or hell. The origin of my meal is irrelevant. This man's blood will gurgle from his throat into my mouth.

..

Ever since Needy ditched me for her boyfriend, Ben, it'd gotten harder and harder to simply exist.

Since she started throwing around words like succubus and demon and _vampire_ (the latter of which hurts more than anything else) we haven't really been talking.

It was like one day we were like the g-string shoved up the ass of a two cent stripper and the next I'd given her an STI.

..

My thigh is between his legs, pressing up against him. My lips plant open mouth kisses on his neck, my teeth nipping flesh. Teasing.

Apple's and cinnamon explode in my mouth. I wrap my legs around his torso.

A group of drunken frat boys interrupt my feeding, but leave seconds after. Obscene comments, cat calls, and whistles thrown at me and my companion are the only acknowledgement made that we even exist.

This is the best part about feeding in Seattle. My mouth is guzzling this guy's life out of him, and people don't glance twice. I'm not sure whether it is my appearance and the fact that my face remains completely human looking during the feed, inhuman beauty aside, or that the people of Seattle really couldn't give a fuck if I eat Seattleites as long as it wasn't them, but either way I've never been bothered.

A throng of rats swarm around the alley. Around my feet. Around my happy meal with fries and a drink. Around my lasagna with teeth.

Take a homeless man off the street and no one notices. No one notices if you take a single guy who was just hit hard by the recent economic hardships and is currently unemployed and living in a shitty neighborhood either. No one notices, anything, anyone… period.

A piercing scream distracts me from my hunt, from my current meal on wheels. I drain him out quickly and drop the body.

Glancing briefly at the way the pack of mice scatter to let his body fall to the floor before they swarm and attack the leftovers, I head towards the commotion.

This is my territory. Seattle, Forks, Port Angeles. Mine. Mine. Mine.

I am seething at the thought of another hunting in the territory I have claimed as my own. These are my humans. This is my blood bank.

..

Honestly, nothing should shock me anymore.

But the sight of flaming red hair?

Of all the things I expected to stumble upon, the red headed bitch ranks low on the list.

And her victim? It's like that dream I had of me and Edward and my Grandma only it was me who was wrinkly and old and gray. It's like looking into her face but seeing my own.

I'm waiting to wake up. Waiting for Charlie to rush into my room and shake me awake. Surely this must not be real.

When Victoria lays eyes on me, she drops her victim to the floor. Pausing momentarily to admire her work, the way that this doppelganger of mine suffers as the venom takes hold of her system, she offers me a wide smile.

"Isabella Swan," she coos, "it truly has been a while hasn't it?"

I can tell that she doesn't want an answer. I don't give her one.

She saunters towards me, glancing once more at the feeble Bella Swan bleeding over one of the endless alley's that Seattle fosters, before pausing millimeters away from my body.

"Where is your precious Edward?" She wonders, tapping her finger to her mouth in a dramatic display. Her untamed fiery red hair flows untamed behind her back and spills onto her shoulders.

This question is also rhetorical and she continues on the conversation before I can even contemplate how to tackle that question.

"Oh, silly me," She exclaims, her eyes comically wide. "He left you." She moves her hand to her head, tapping her pointer to her temple. "I remember. You weren't good enough. The pathetic little human pet finally discovered her true worth didn't you?"

She pauses momentarily, but pushes through the silence I was never meant to fill.

"It would be hard not to. Considering that Edward Cullen left you in the forest with those _things_ he hunts. Left you like an animal. Like a meal."

She twirls around me, her eyes roaming over the supple planes of my body.

"My, my, my, but if he could see you now. You've certainly filled out." She purrs, running a finger along my arm and leaving gooseflesh in her wake. "Certainly he wouldn't have left this Isabella Swan, would he?"

Her other hand snakes behind my back, using my ass as leverage to pull me flush against her rock hard body. "There is something _off_ about you," she murmurs into my ear, tapping a finger to her chin, cocking her head sideways.

"Are you going to tell me?" She purrs while her dirty fingers tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

I figure that this question, like all the ones that she has previously asked of me, is rhetorical.

In the next instant, faster than any human could blink, Victoria pins me, face first, against the grimy stone walls of the alley. Her knee pressed against my back, my left arm pinned threateningly against my back, her teeth bared against my neck, I figure that maybe, _maybe_, her question wasn't rhetorical.

In the same moment that she's handing my ass to me, she growls into the skin of my neck, "or am I going to have to guess?"

This question is in fact rhetorical. If the bitten, mani-less fingernails of my captive and their close proximity to my open mouth are to be interpreted correctly.

Victoria, because this night hasn't been fucked up enough already, begins to pepper kisses along my neck. She moans, open-mouthed, into my flesh and digs the fingers of the hand that isn't restraining me onto the underside of my jaw, turning my head so that we're FTF.

"I'd wanted to kill you, so badly, for what your Edward had done to my James. But I think keeping you would be much more agreeable for me. And to think, I'd almost gone to Laurent. He surely wouldn't have exercised the same control. He wouldn't have been able to stop himself from killing you. And you, Isabella Swan, you're too damn good to go to waste."

With those words in mind, her grip on my arm goes lax and she drops her knee from its position on my ass. Instead of keeping me under wraps with brute force, Victoria decides to shock me into submission by shoving me against the wall and grinding against me. Her teeth nip at my lower lip, gently requesting admission into my mouth.

Really, I should be running in the other direction, for as strong as I am and as fast as I can be, I have never, ever, been up against a vampire. Especially one that really wants to just my bones. But instead, lost in a haze of lust, I wrap my legs around the vampire's waist and entwine my hands in her thick, untamed hair. My back arcs, as Victoria presses against me in a delicious way.

My Edward Cullen wannabe lunch pack has made me hot and bothered, and maybe, I decide as Victoria's tongue makes its way down my throat, this is just what I need to take my mind off of things. Of Edward Cullen. Of his human doppelganger. Of Roman Duda.

All good things come to an end, however, and I am reminded by this when I hear the subtle whimpering of _my own_ human doppelganger. I wonder how many other brown eyed, brown haired girls were disappearing in Seattle. I wonder how many other Seattleites walked right past Victoria feeding from these girls and honestly not bothered to give a shit beyond throwing catcalls and whistles.

It's in this moment, that I realize as fun as this is, as great of a prospect as hanging out with Victoria is shaping out to be, I cannot let the sacrifices of these girls, these Isabella Swans, go unpunished.

The hands that are entwined in Victoria's hair twist sharply and with a resounding crack, her head separates from her torso. Her arms are removed just as easily; as are her legs.

I take the lighter that I've kept on person since discovering my god like healing abilities, since I discovered how truly more than human I was, and run my thumb along the device, igniting the flame.

I take a moment to admire the lidded eyes and slightly parted mouth that adorn Victoria's face. Her eyes are clouded over in a film of desire, the irises milky. Her visage forever frozen in a lustful expression.

With a slight ping of regret, I drop the lighter onto the pieces of her body. Watching as her expression melts as her flesh cracks and is consumed. Watching as purplish smoke billows from her ashes.

I turn towards the girl, this human version of me, now that the threat Victoria may have posed is rendered null.

The girl, she's smoldering, inside and out, and looking into my mask, my flawless mask, and crying and screaming and afraid she's going to die. To her credit, she has managed to keep from screaming until this point.

My hands are on her mouth to silence her. My lips are on her neck, sucking and drinking, but not draining.

When all traces of the venom are gone from her system, my insides burn as my body sorts through the foreign substance and heals my body.

Her doe eyes are closed and she moans in her sleep. I lift her into my arms, pausing only briefly to retrieve my lighter from against the pile of rubble that used to be Victoria.

Then, snuggling her lithe body into my chest in a protective gesture, I carry her to the hospital.

..

I have been trying endlessly to forget about Roman Duda.

Pirouetting off my bed, my foot snags the discarded pair of pants from last night. A light coating of blood and venom were not what the designer intended in regards to the carefully distressed jeans.

I fall to the ground with a thud, my hands smacking against the floor and dislodging a slab of wood.

Newton really knows his shit. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction indeed.

For the first time since I can remember, I am not thinking about Roman Duda. At all. Not even a little.

Instead I'm thinking of Edward Cullen and what a fucking asshole he is.

Underneath the floor of my bedroom where I cried for Edward Cullen, for the parents that I never had but had wished for mercilessly, for the sister and best friend that had been forfeit, for the brothers and even Rosalie, Ice Bitch that she was, that had been made unavailable to me, was the place in which the confirmation of their love for me had lived.

I jump up from the floor, rummaging through the drawers in my nightstand in search of my old walkman. I place the CD that Edward had made for me for my birthday inside of it.

The backs of my knees bump into the purple comforter covered mattress, and I let myself fall backwards onto the bed. My hair splays out on the pillow. The other mementos forgotten on my bedroom floor.

I know in this moment that I will do everything in my power to contact Edward Cullen.

He might have been a complete and total douche, but he was my asshole.

And I was completely and irrevocably in love with him.

..

I'm sorry this was out soo late. I'm really bad at posting in a timely manner. This chapter was my longest to date though, so maybe that will make it up for it? Partially?

The next chapter is halfway written already so it should be out soonish… maybe.

THANX to everyone who reads and reviews, I LOVE YOU…

Since I've made you guys wait so long, I am going to spoil you, if you don't want to know what is in store for these characters than don't read:

The Cullen's might not be making an appearance anytime soon, but there might be a different clan of Veggie vamps in the area in the future…. And this clan might be housing a succubus of their own. So basically Bella as a succubus stuff, as it pertains to Through the Trees, will be explained since there are differences from JB in order to fit more with the story. So any confusion as to Victoria's actions will be explained then.

There might be a little bit of Jacob in the foreseeable future… since he might take it upon himself to protect our little succubus from these visiting vamps, even though she certainly doesn't need it….

But anyways, this AN is long enough… Love you guys. Read and review! :D


	7. HP and V

C H A P T E R S I X — HP and V

I've got this feeling that one of us has to die.

..

A week ago I found the proof of Edward Cullen's love for me. It took me seven days to realize that it doesn't change a damn thing.

..

I haven't been to school in eleven days. I don't even have to wonder if Angela misses me.

She doesn't.

She's spent the past few weeks slowly but surely alienating the entire student body against me. Trying to at least. With Lauren, resident Mean Girl extraordinaire prior to Angela's initial interference after Edward had left Forks, and Jessica, a blind sheep in need of a shepherd, backing her she's managed to garner quite a following.

With the girls at least.

..

"Hi," I whisper from my perch on her bed.

Her response is a bloodcurdling scream. My response is to roll my eyes.

"God, Needy, enough with the screaming! You're such a cliché." I tell her, twirling a lock of perfect chocolate hair in between my fingers.

"Get out!" She yells at me. Petulant. Weak.

I wonder if she plans to attempt to "make me."

"But we always share your bed when we have slumber parties," I respond in playful voice. When she doesn't respond I roll my eyes again, something I think I will do a lot during this conversation with my supposed "Bestie" and respond with a sarcastic, "I'm not going to bite you."

I reach up and pull her hair into my hands, moving to the left onto her shoulder. As I begin playing with the dark stringy strands with my fingers I can't help but think my hair is far superior to hers. In regards to color, texture, length… and well everything really.

Where I am kneeling on the edge of Needy's bed I'm so close to her that our breasts are almost pressed up against each other.

"Is that my evil dead t-shirt?" Angela has a way of completely ignoring the important in favor of the blatantly obvious.

I smile and still playing with her hair, move so that our noses are touching. My eyes looking into hers, I'm not sure what I'm looking for, or if I find it, but I pull back momentarily, our faces now inches away.

The pads of my thumbs brush against her lips and her lack of a negative reaction spurs me on. Our faces join together until they are only centimeters away.

My hands reach up to cup her face, underneath her chin, and I use the leverage to guide her face closer to mine until there is nothing separating them and our lips are pressed together. Our mouths open at the same time, and I suck her upper lip into my mouth, lightly tugging on it with my teeth before releasing it. I give her lower lip the same treatment. Trying to coax her mouth to open wider. When she finally does open her mouth, I coax her tongue out her mouth with my own. Our tongues meet in a soft and gentle dance as my hands glide from Angela's face. As my hands reach lower and lower, I part from her face, retrieving my tongue from her mouth, and after briefly squeezing her boobs, fall flat on her bed.

Needy, her face a picture of shock and confusion, stands for a second, looking straight ahead, at where my face was just moments earlier. After a brief pause, she crawls on top of her bed, on top of me, with her bent arms pressed against my side for support. With my eyes closed and Angela's hair brushing up against my cheeks, her matching BFF necklace falling on the pulse of my neck, our mouths meet again. This time, the kiss is more rushed and frantic. Our pace accelerated. Our movement's in tandem.

My legs bend at the knee and press against Angela's ass. My hands move up from the top of her ass to the middle of her back, my nails scraping against her back and pulling the shirt up with my movements.

Just as quickly as our mouths are moving against each other, as fast as our tongues stroke each other, Angela pushes against my chest and jumps away from me.

"What the fuck is happening?" She asks me when I chose not to answer her asinine question.

I begin to laugh hysterically. After everything that has happened with Victoria, the kiss (with Needy, though Victoria defiantly makes top five), the rhetorical question sets me off. My back arched on Angela's bed, her evil dead t-shirt, which she hasn't worn since last summer because it's a size to small, is stretched tight against my chest and rides up the smooth, supple planes of my stomach. I wipe the tears from my eyes and turn to face Needy, who seems frightened and confused by my seemingly random laughter.

"My God, Needy. I have never heard you drop the F-bomb before." I tell her, slightly breathless from laughing so hard.

"I saw you! I saw- I saw- I saw the—" She stammers.

"Slow down, tardy slip. You sound like a sped." I tell her when she doesn't seem to be able to articulate her thoughts.

"I'm gonna call the police." She tells me.

"Okay." I respond, because I feel like humoring her. "Why don't you narc me out?" This is rhetorical. "I have the cops in my back pocket, Needy. I was fucking a cadet. Remember? My father is chief of police." I remind her because she seems to have forgotten.

"What do you want from me?" She wonders.

"Just want to explain some things to you. Besides, best friends don't keep secrets. Right? So, you remember the night of the fire? I got really messed up. And those guys from Low Shoulder-totally evil. They're basically, like, agents of Satan... with really awesome haircuts."

..

Chastity, which is an ironic name for a succubus, but not for a stripper, used to go to Forks High School. She moved a week before I arrived. Her stay in Forks was relatively short, Needy would tell me. She was Mr. Molina's step daughter. His marriage with her mother was equally as short. It started with her substituting for Señorita Erickson, our old Spanish teacher, and ended with him having a hook for a hand.

Some people think a bear ate it off. Some people think that either Chastity or her mom did it.

A week prior to Chastity's departure from Forks, she went missing for three days.

Some people thought gang rape. Some people thought that Mr. Molina made her his sex slave. Some people were really fucking crazy.

Needy told me once that she saw Mr. Molina putting up posters, during those three days, his eyes were bloodshot and his hands were shaking. He looked terrible. He didn't look like he'd been having wanton sex with his step daughter.

Three days after she disappeared, she reappeared just as suddenly.

A week after that, Mr. Molina was admitted into the hospital for injuries sustained in a "bear" accident. When Chastity and her step mom left later that same day, people started to talk.

Some people thought that Chastity attacked him with an axe she found in the middle of the forest after she escaped her captivity. Some people thought the gang rapists went back for seconds and were angry when they found Mr. Molina instead of his step daughter. Some people needed to get a fucking life.

When I showed up in Forks a week after that, people shut the fuck up and started talking about me instead.

..

"Where, where are we going?" I ask from my position in the van. The drummer, keyboarder and guitarist are all staring at me like I'm a piece of meat. Dirk, from his shotgun position manages to engage in a whispered conversation in which he maintains eye contact with Nikoli and stare at me at the same time. Nikoli Wolfe, the lead singer, would probably be leering at me too if he wasn't driving.

"You don't have to talk if you don't want to," Nikoli tells me, glancing back briefly and giving me a wide crooked grin.

There's a skull by my feet with a gap from where a spherical object bashed the top of someone's head and crushed it in. A book by Ivan Vladik called _The Occult World_ lies near a candle and the Christmas lights strung along the floor of the van against the walls.

There's a cross with a crucified Jesus on my other side, along with a book about Witches that has a giant pentagram on the front of it. Magazines and tiny metal skulls adorn the floor.

"Are you guy's rapists?" I ask. My eyes watery. My throat choked up.

"Oh god I hate girls," Nikoli tells the bass player.

"Are you even sure she's a fucking virgin man?" The man sitting closest to me asks. He's got a pedophile smile and a thick bushy beard.

"Yes, yes I'm a virgin." I tell them because, 'Oh god I hate girls,' is not a no and these guys are defiantly, probably, most likely rapists. "I've never, I've never even done sex. I don't know how. So you guys should find someone who does. Know how." I plead, glancing back and forth between the front seat and the back of the van at the band members. My fingers digging into the ratty gray carpet.

"See Dirk? I told you man. You owe me a bear."

..

"What did they do to you?" Needy asks, a frantic expression on her face.

I roll my eyes at her and respond, "Just let me finish."

"So they drove me out to the falls and I kept looking for a way to escape but it's really dark out there."

..

When the bearded guy gets out of the van I try to jump him, but Nikoli grabs me from behind before I can escape.

"Where are you going, huh?" He asks before turning to the rest of his band. "We've got a waxing moon tonight," he says looking up into the sky, "just like the ritual says."

I replace his final words with a snarky, "just like the tattoo on your neck," but I'm too hysterical and out of breath from Nikoli's manhandling, and his arm, which has moved from my back to tight around my neck, to say the words and they come out as gibberish.

I scream through the bearded man's hand that's placed against my mouth as they carry me through the forest. Nikoli, who isn't helping to carry any part of me, wonders aloud "Do one of you guys have something to shut her up with?"

My screaming and thrashing increase at his comment.

When they finally manage to carry me to the waterfall, the borderline between La Push and Forks, the splitting point of the two rivers, the whirlpool that leads to nothing, they tie me up to a cluster of rocks.

"Great." Nikoli says in response to the job the guys have done in binding me to the rock formation. "But get it nice and tight, though, 'cause I don't wanna get fuckin' clawed."

"I don't know if we should go through with this," Dirk says as I struggle against the ropes, against the gag they put in my mouth.

Nikoli rolls his eyes and then turns to face Dirk, "Dirk." He says, placing his hands on his shoulders. "Do you wanna work at Moose Hoof Coffee forever? I don't, okay? Do you wanna be a big loser," he wonders, brushing aside Dirks' hair, "_or _do you wanna be rich and awesome like that guy from Maroon 5?"

"Maroon 5," he responds.

"OK, that's what I thought. Go and fetch me the ritual brother." As Dirk leaves Nikoli mouths the words "what the fuck," to the other band members, his hands raised palm up in a questioning manner.

When Dirk returns, Nikoli thanks him and looking down at the ritual says, "All right."

"That's it?" Beard questions, skeptical.

"Yeah, I found it online," Nikoli replies before beginning the ritual. "We come here tonight to sacrifice the body of…" He pauses for a moment, as if trying to remember something. After mumbling Tiffany in a questioning manner to himself, he reaches over to yank down my gang. "What was your name again?"

"My name is Bella," I manage to say between sobs.

"We come here tonight to sacrifice the body of Bella from Forks,"

Since he didn't replace my gag after taking it from my mouth I begin to plead, "Please, please. Please, please, don't do this. I'll do anything. I'll do anything you want."

The only indication that any of the band members have heard my cries is a deep sigh that comes of Nikoli's throat. As if I should be happy for this. As if I shouldn't be so resistant. He refolds the paper and slides it into his back pocket. He leans over and crosses his arms in front of him, supporting his weight on a tree stump.

"Do you know how hard it is to make it as an Indie band these days? There's so many of us, and we're all so cute and it's like, if you don't get on Letterman or some retarded soundtrack, you're screwed, okay? Satan is our only hope. We're in league with the beast now and we have to make a really big impression on him. And to do that, we're going to have to butcher you and bleed you. And then Dirk here's gonna wear your face." When he sees my panicked expression he tells me to "Relax." Tells me he's "kidding about the face." He tells me that "The rest is gonna happen though." "Why don't you just get a publicist? We could make t-shirts. I could be a part of, I could be a part of your-"

"Sorry," he doesn't sound very sorry at all. "But you know what? Maybe we'll write a song about you. As a fan, that'd be cool, right?"

As he's saying this he pulls a sharp, shiny blade from a wooden case.

My response to this is to shake my head. He's going to butcher me and my condolence prize is a song? "No, no." I plead. Crying. My face ruined from all the crying I've been doing. Mascara running down my face.

"With the deepest malice, we deliver this virgin unto thee." His hands are poised above his head, both grasping onto the knife, aimed at my abdomen, aimed at my stomach, aimed to "butcher and bleed" me.

"Dude, that is a hot murder weapon," Dirk interrupts, noticing the way that the knife looks as it's poised to kill me.

"It's a bowie knife," Nikoli tells him, his face turned away from me and towards Dirk.

"Bowie? Nice." And their brief conversation over, Nikoli turns back to me.

"Alright here we go it's going to be gnarly." He's raised the knife even further above his head and the suddenly the knife is heading towards me and just as suddenly his movement's stopped and he's bent over me. One hand near my head, playing with the strands of my hair, the other shaking the knife to illustrate his words. "Wait, I've just thought of something. I know that this isn't how the song goes, but it's short notice." He says waving around that knife. "And well Bella, Bella, you're the girl for me. And our ritual." He adds as an aside, leaning in closely to whisper the words into my ear.

"And well because of that, you make me so happy." He glances around at the other band members, as if to make sure that they're all on the same page. "I tried to call you before but I lost my nerve."

By the time he gets to, "I used my imagination, but I was disturbed," he's using the knife as a stand in microphone and the other guys are singing along with him. "_BELLA_, I've got your number. I need to make you mine."

"_BELLA_, don't change your number."

And then suddenly the knife isn't by his lips and he's not singing into it. My stomach, my perfectly flawless stomach, it isn't flawless anymore.

I scream at the top of my lungs. This must be the "butcher and bleed" parts of tonight's festivities.

"867-5309!" They sing as Nikoli Wolfe stabs me into the chest.

"867-5309!" They sing as I scream. Nikoli Wolfe starts to plunge the knife into me with only one hand.

"867-5309!" They sing and _exeunt._

..

"They killed you?" Angela wonders, tears in her eyes that don't fall.

"I'm still here aren't I?" I tell her with a scoff. "I mean they did go all Benihana on my ass with that knife and it should have killed me," I say, looking at my nails, "but for some reason it didn't."

"Maybe it did," a tear rolls down her cheek as she replies.

..

Nikoli stands over my body. Panting. Out of breath. Bella Swan could only wish that his over exertion was from the energy required in raping her.

Nikoli walks away from the corpse, sliding the knife across his thick jacket to wipe the blood off of it. Bella Swan could only wish that instead of this torment, there had instead been unwanted sexual intercourse. Gang rape.

He tosses the knife into the whirlpool. Bella Swan could only wish she were Chastity instead. A sex slave to Mr. Molina. Anything would have been better than this.

Then, after the evidence has been disposed of, after Nikoli has regained his breath, each of the band members grabs hold of Isabella Swan and they toss her into the whirlpool.

..

"Anyway, I don't really remember what happened after that. I just know that I woke up and I found my way back to you."

"I remember." She tells me, looking at the comforter instead of my eyes, tears streaking her face.

"I couldn't bring myself to hurt you. I mean, I'm a really good friend, but I was just so hungry. Even after I made Tyler Crowley from India my meals on wheels. And ever since then, I just knew what I had to do to be strong. And when I'm full, like I am right now, I'm, like, unkillable. Like, I can do shit like this. Watch." I tell her as I drag a thin piece of wood into my arm at the inside of my elbow and drag down to the middle of my arm. "It's really cool. Just watch. Look." I tell her, making a slurping noise as the skin healed together. "It's like some x-men shit, right?"

"What do you mean when you're full?" she asks, glancing between me and my healed up arm. "What about my mom's Kia? Why were you covered in blood? You didn't even look human."

"You know Needy, maybe you should talk to someone about these disturbing thoughts that you're having. We're all really concerned. Especially Ben."

My comments have hit close to home. As soon as I mention her boyfriend, well her ex-boyfriend, since he broke up with her after she started rallying the troops against me since he didn't understand how she could just abandon her best friend and side with Jessica and Lauren of all people, she's off the bed and looking at me with a fierce expression in her eyes.

"I think he's having second thoughts about you."

"Leave," she tells me, pointing her hand to the door.

I roll my eyes, "Come on Needy. Let me stay the night. We can play boyfriend-girlfriend like we used to."

She turns away from me, and I swallow my soul in my throat. I don't know why I expected her to understand. I roll off her bed and slide a pair of sweatpants over top of my blue and red underwear and knee highs. As I walk towards her window, poised to open it, she interrupts me.

"What are you doing?" She asks, bewildered.

"Um, you said to leave." I tell her and stretch a leg outside of the window. When I'm halfway out, I turn my head back and tell her that I'll, "see her at school." And then I'm gone.

..

When I walk down the road from Needy's house to my own I'm startled by a rustling in the forest. I pretend not to notice the noise, and continue down. When a blur leaps from the forest and attempts to tackle me into the ground I am ready for the attack and high on Eric's life force. I easily grab my attacker's throat and suspend her mind air.

The throat in my hands is pale and feminine, lacking an Adam's apple. The women behind the throat, is beautiful in an exotic Asian sort of way. Pale skin emphasizes dark liquid eyes. Just as soon as I've gotten a glimpse of her face, as I begin to ponder this nagging feeling in my mind that she's familiar somehow, the Asian women wriggles out of my grasp and takes off running.

I follow her, through the streets, through the neighborhoods, through the woods. I follow her like the wolf chasing after Red Riding Hood.

We're racing faster than any animal in the kingdom. We're racing faster than most cars.

0 to sixty in 1.7 seconds, 0 to 100 in 2.3 seconds, 0 to 200 in 4.2 seconds. I am faster than the gods.

By the time I track the girl to a location, when she stops running she's at the Cullen's house. I don't know why I didn't notice. I've been so absorbed in tracking her that I haven't been paying attention to where I've been going beyond the fact that I'm passing cars and trees.

I enter the Cullen home cautiously. Speeding through the entry way and into the living room.

Perched on the Cullen's old sofa is a strawberry blonde. She's faced the other direction and fantastic hair is all that I can notice about her. But as soon as I enter, she stands up, and turns towards me offering her hand. "I'm Tanya Denali. The tactless one who tried to jump you, quite unsuccessfully mind you, and bravo for that by the way before I forget, is Chastity Denali."

And suddenly I'm having flashbacks to the poster Needy took from Mr. Molina, when he was handing them out, of Chastity. She's far more beautiful than her poster could ever suggest. Not in a plastic surgery way, not in a way that looks like her lips are fake or her cheeks are injected, but in a way that makes you spitefully proclaim these things. In a way that makes people on the street turn, sometimes out of jealousy, sometimes out of a desire. Even the straightest of people can't help but wonder what an ass like that would feel like in their hands, what those lips would feel like on the most intimate of parts.

When I tear my gaze from the familiar girl, I reach to grasp Tanya's hand between my own, shaking it. Meeting her gaze for the first time. That's when I notice the color of her eyes, of Chastity's eyes. Golden. Like the Cullen's. After looking at Tanya, every thought that I'd had moments earlier about Chastity has suddenly become obsolete. If Chastity should be considered beautiful, Tanya Denali is drop dead, jizz in my pants, fucking gorgeous. Unlike Chastity's exotic beauty, Tanya Denali is girl-next door porn star strawberry blonde hair, golden eyes and sharp, hourglass curves.

"I'm Tanya Denali," she repeats, my hand still clasped in her own, "and we have some things to talk about."

"You, you're that girl, you're Chastity, Mr. Molina's daughter, the one who left after his hand got fucking amputated." I tell the Asian girl, yanking my hand back from Tanya.

There's a brief look of surprise on both of their faces, before Tanya, rushes to place a hand on the younger girl's arm and then speeds back to stand by me.

"Why don't you sit down, there are more important things to discuss, but we can get back to that later." She grasps my hands in her own and I let her lead me to the couch. I take a seat on the sofa and she perches herself on the arm of the sofa. She places my hands, with her own, on her lap.

I glance past Tanya's position on the arm of the sofa towards where Chastity stands by the large windows of the Cullen home.

"Chastity, can you go and get me the thermos?" Tanya questions, glancing briefly in the girl's direction.

Chastity's only response is to disappear and return moments later a tall metal thermos in her hands. She passes it to Tanya and then returns to her position by the window.

Tanya hands the thermos to me.

Chastity turns from the window to face where Tanya and I are sitting on the couch.

And that's when everything goes awry.

One moment Chastity is standing by the window and the next the window is shattered and Chastity is on fire. Tanya rushes to help her and another bottle of Vodka with a flaming rag sticking out of it is tossed through the window, glass flying, Chastity screaming as her face melts. Tanya, busy trying to put Chastity out, doesn't notice the bottle of Vodka heading straight for her back. Tanya and Chastity, I've only known them for five minutes and my heart breaks, my stomach lurches at the sight of them on fire.

Chastity her melting face, her beautiful face. A wax figure becoming a pool of liquid before my eyes. Tanya's unsuspecting face twisting into an agonized expression. Her hair fiery, like molten lava, turned to ash. Her mouth, before the fire swallows her whole, silently forms the words, "thermos," and then her face, like her hair is flaming. Tanya Denali, the human torch.

In the distance, I catch sight of something that sets heart to my fire, sets heart to the soul I swallowed earlier.

Angela "Needy" Webber.

..

I watch as the purple smoke billows from the remains.

Coexistence is impossible.

..

The name of the chapter is a reference to Harry Potter and Voldemort. :D

This chapter took FOREVER to write. On the bright side, however, new chapter. Chastity is the name listed for Valerie Tian's characters on the credits, the chick that made the "lesbi-gay" comment in the movie. So she's not an OC, FYI. I'm not fond of OC's, if you're creative enough you really shouldn't need them, and most of them are majorly Mary Sue.

This chapter was ten pages, the longest yet, so maybe it makes up for my lack of an update. Tanya and Chastity Denali were both murdered; I think I have a thing for killing of Twilight characters. On the bright side, however, those of you who like the wolves, they might need to make an appearance in the next chapter since someone, cough Needy cough, has burnt down the Cullen house. Angela Webber's kick ass succubus killing will be addressed in the Epilogue, which will be a Needy POV. This story is almost over, probably three or four chapters and an epilogue.

Thank you everyone who reads and reviews this story. I LOVE YOU ALL. And Happy Holidays. :D


	8. Changes

..

C H A P T E R S E V E N — C H A N G E S

..

They did a big memorial assembly for Colin at school. And everyone had to watch another presentation about curfews and the buddy system and how to deal with grief.

But nobody seemed to care anymore. Sorrow was last week's emotion.

Sure, everyone hoped this would be the last funeral, but I knew better. I'd spent my weekend digging through the rubble of that used to be the Cullen house searching, through the use of my amazing nose, for the remains of Tanya and Chastity. I'd spread their ashes into the ocean from the La Push cliffs. I'd seen Jacob cliff diving with some of his friends.

He must've known about the fire at the Cullen home. It was on the news.

The police had investigated, ruled no one had been in the fire, and then voila case closed. Murder trumped arson any day.

Charlie had put one man on the investigation. It didn't last very long. No one on the force liked the Cullen's, not after what they'd done to me. No one minded that the investigation didn't yield any findings. No one minded that there wasn't really a formal investigation at all.

Jacob Black, he surely must have known. Billy might not have had a flat screen, but he did have a TV. Jacob Black, he knew, but he seemed to give less of a damn than me. He didn't shout at me, he didn't wave. I don't think he even glanced twice. We'd never been besties, not like Angela and I, and I don't know what I expected him to do, but his lack of a reaction was certainly not what I'd imagined.

I might not have been going to the school portion of school, but that didn't mean that I hadn't been hanging around and spying on the humans who did. Namely Angela 'Needy' Webber. She'd taken to looking up information about me when she didn't think I was looking. What she didn't realize was that I was always looking.

She had articles stuffed underneath her bed skirt about 'offering a virgin to Satan.'

Passages that warned what would happen 'If the Sacrifice is Impure-.' Excerpts that talked about 'Human and Demonic Relations.' These articles and photocopied pages of old books, they don't worry me in the least. It's the one entitled simply 'Destroying a Demon' that causes fear to bloom within me.

If nothing else, however, the pages are enlightening. Angela has done in 24 hours something that never occurred to me during the months that passed after I became what I am. Research. ''Demons are weakest when hungry, but a blade to the heart is the surest way to kill the beast," proclaims the excerpt pages from 'Destroying a Demon.'

Angela and I haven't spoken since our encounter in her room.

Actually, I hadn't really spoken to anyone. And neither had she for that matter.

Even though I had stopped going to school I had blackmailed the principal into restoring, and maintaining, my attendance record. It's funny how much more time you have when you don't have to waste six hours participating in menial tasks like schoolwork and teenage drama.

Colin's death and my absence from school gave the Lauren the access and opportunity she needed to overthrow me and regain her position as school royalty.

The funny thing was how little I seemed to care anymore. When Roman was alive, when we were together, I'd made getting to the top of the social ladder, and staying there, my top priority. In a town as small as Forks, when you're as clumsy as I was, there wasn't much in the means of extracurricular activities.

..

I spent my lunch hour sipping on A neg and watching Angela and her boyfriend.

"Hey. Just bought our formal tickets. Did you make reservations at the Cheesecake Factory?" Ben joins Angela, a bright hopeful look on his face. I know he's about to be crushed. Angela "Needy" Webber she's a bitch in sheep's clothing.

"Ben, I can't go to the dance with you." Needy told him and I watched the smirk fall off of his face.

"What? Why?"

"Look, just trust me. You shouldn't go at all."

"What are you talking about?"

"Not here." She says, glancing around suspiciously at anything and everything in the vicinity. She's right to be cautious, but she's stupid if she thinks she's better at me than hunting. My nights in Port Angeles have paid off. I am stealth personified.

"What's going on?" He questioned her, his face confused. "You're breaking up with me?" He wondered incredulous.

"Please, Ben!" She pleads. "I just need to show you something."

"Is this about Bella?" Probably, I think. What isn't about me these days when it concerns Angela's thought processes.

"Yes! But I promise you this is the last thing—"

"Needy, I care about you. A lot. As a person, not just some girl I made love to for four minutes the other night. And I'm scared of what's happening to you. You're acting really fucked up."

"Please just let me show you."

Ben exhales slowly before relenting with a muttered, "Okay."

"Bella's evil." She tells him, her face serious.

"I know." He says, because he thinks she's referring to how big of a bitch I am.

"No, I mean, she's actually evil. Not high-school evil. I've been through the occult section at the library five times."

"Our library has an occult section?"

"Yeah, it's um— it's really small. Uh, you have to read this."

''Demoni—" When he realizes what he's reading he stops and looks up at her, completely confused.

"'Demonic transference.'" She finishes for him. "It's something that happens when you try to sacrifice a virgin to Satan... without using an actual virgin. The guys in the band tried to sacrifice her in the woods. But what they didn't know is that she hasn't been a virgin since junior year."

"It all makes sense now." He jokes.

"Read this." She tells him and thrusts an aging book into his face.

"'If the human sacrifice is impure, the result may still be attained, but the demon will forever reside in the soul of the victim. She must forever feed on flesh to sustain the demon.'" He read the words aloud, clearly bemused by her actions. "Okay." He draws the word out.

"She's eating boys! They, like, make her really pretty and glowy and her hair looks amazing. And then when she's hungry, she's weak and cranky and ugly. I mean, like, ugly for her. Don't you get it? The dance. It'll be like an all-you-can-eat buffet."

"Needy, I think you need help."

"Oh, my God. You don't believe me." She seems surprised. Without the presence of proof, I can understand his skepticism. It is vastly amusing.

"It's not that I don't believe you. I just don't believe this."

"God! This is a nightmare!"

"Well, what about the dance?" He wonders.

"Who cares about the goddanged dance, Ben?"

"I do. I ordered your corsage. It's an orchid. It was, like, $12."

"I'll be at the dance. I just need to keep an eye on Bella. Promise me you're not gonna go."

"Needy, I—I'm not your guy anymore?"

"Ben, it's not safe for us to be together right now."

..

I was in my room clutching a wad of hair between my hands. A neg was not a good conditioning treatment. I hadn't had freshly squeezed human blood in a week. It was like trying to maintain a balanced meal plan but only being able to eat Lean Cuisine.

After Angela had lit a fire underneath Tanya and Chastity's asses, I hadn't had much of an appetite for anything fresh. The fire, the articles, they were all saying the same thing. You are not immortal. You are not special. You only think you are.

There was something about watching their body's burn up into ashes, at the hands of my best friend, that had me counting down the seconds. Something that let me know my time was borrowed. If Tanya and Chastity had been slaughtered so quickly after revealing themselves to me, then how much longer would I have before Angela lit the match?

Having smooth hair, without having fed recently directly for the source, meant brushing it. Brushing it meant having globs of hair fall out.

I'm using enough moisturizer to turn deserts into tropical rain forests.

It's strange, after months of not having to do anything at all to look pretty, to have to spend more time than when you were human to make yourself look presentable.

I travel over to my closet, shoving aside old clothes in favor of a small refrigerator that I'd bought with the money my victims had on their person. Opposite the fridge is a safe. The safe has all the photos and wallets. The children they weren't allowed to see, the badges proclaiming the number of months sober. The stuff that's really fucking depressing to look at before going to a high school dance.

The fridge, it's packed to the brim with blood. Mostly A, pos and neg, and O neg which happen to be my favorite flavors of human. I'm not sure what flavor I'll be drinking tonight. My hands and my eyes stray to where the thermos Tanya had given me before she'd become the human torch rests in the fridge untouched.

I pick up a packet of O neg instead. I'm not interested in anything new or exciting tonight. Tonight will prove to change enough already without the contents of the thermos involved.

..

All over Devil's Kettle, kids were getting ready for the dance, blissfully ignorant that some poor chump was on his way to being Satan Chow.

..

I've been stalking Ben all night, trying to determine his sincerity in proclaiming his disbelief at Angela's truths. Trying to make sure that he knows they're lies.

Because honestly, I'm not sure if Succubae have a demonic presence similar to what the Volturi represent for the vampire's, but I don't want to find out.

"Didn't you hear me calling your name?" I ask Ben. This is, for the most part, rhetorical. I hadn't muttered his name once, but with my voice as raspy and sickly sounding as it was, it didn't seem implausible. I also appeared out of nowhere, something that I've gotten rather good at lately. Even despite the unbalanced meal plan I'd been working with.

"You weren't calling my name." He tells me and I give him a blank look in response.

"Yes I was." I tell him, slightly angered that he answered.

"I-I couldn't hear it." He stutters slightly, clearly scared. Is that a can of pepper spray in your pocket or are you just happy to see me.

"Listen, I need to talk to you about you-know-who. Our little Needy." I make a big deal out of sighing audibly. "I'm really stressed about her.

"She's been acting a little off lately."

"Look, I think I know what's wrong with her." I tell him with a dash of reluctance and a hint of knowledge.

"What? What is it?"

I am playing the part of concerned best friend excellently. And with jugular veins like that, I'm seriously tempted to let him play the part of my dim sum.

"You know how Needy has been really upset since Eric died?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Well, it's not just because he was, like, brutally murdered and stuff." I trail off at the end. Hesitance is the key to acting excellence. "I don't wanna say this!" I whine, frustrated and playful at the same time.

"Say it."

"Needy and Eric were intimate. And by that I mean they were porking on a semi-regular basis."

"No." I can almost hear the sound of his heart breaking.

"She and Eric were doing things that you have never even heard of. Okay? Total varsity moves. I just can't believe that she would mess with your head like this. I care about you so much, Ben. More than I've ever had the guts to admit." My hand grasped tightly around his arm, I tell him, "Needy didn't deserve a boy like you."

I lean in closely to kiss him. My eyes trained on the veins in his throat. My head focused on how easy it would be to just take a bite…

..

Kinda evil cliff hanger there. More should be up soon. This story will probably actually only be another two chapters, one of which is already written, so there shouldn't be a long delay in posting it, and an epilogue, which is a quarter written. I'm not sure how much I like this chapter, but I thought two weeks was a long time to go without an update. Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews, I love you all. :D


	9. Salty

C H A P T E R :: E I G H T :: S A L T Y

..

"Oh, you're so salty." I tell him, my lips massaging the pulse point on his neck. My eyes are trained on the bluish veins. It would be so easy to bite down through the buttery flesh.

"Yeah, you're... salty too." Ben tells me. He's confused at the tone of my voice, but he's heartbroken and easy to exploit.

"Say it like you mean it. Say I'm better than Needy." I whisper into his neck. He doesn't hear the threat in my voice, but it's present. Shimmering around in the nighttime crisp air, a serpent poised to strike. I bite down enough to draw a little blood. Crescent shapes line his neck in an oval pattern.

"What? Why?" He questions, pushing me away from him. It's like a bucket of cold water dumped down my person.

"Never mind." I tell him, laughing. I pretend he's heard me wrong. It's my word against his and I am much more convincing. "Come on, Ben. Show me your breast stroke." I tell him, leading him away to the pool.

I am a bitch. I know it. And things are going to get messy.

..

When Angela finds me hunched over Ben's dying body, she drives a pole through my chest. She misses my heart, but the threat is there. Angela 'Needy' Webber is going to kill me. And I deserve it.

I pull it out and it lands on the ground with a clang. The pole bounces around on the ground before settling. Rivulets of blood swirl down my dress and onto the floor.

"Damn it, Needy. This was new." I tell her. My voice is breathy. I'm swaying on my feet. One of my hands is at my forehead, feeling the sweat that resides there. My other hands snakes around my abdomen and towards the gaping wound in the stomach. I dip my hand inside the wound, accidentally, miscalculating the distance.

A gasp escapes from my lips. If I wanted to, I could stick my hand through my chest and grab my ass.

"You got a tampon?" She's bent over Ben's body and isn't paying me any attention. "Thought I'd ask. You seem like you might be plugging."

When Needy bends down to pick up the weapon again, I flee.

I glance back at her from the safety offered to me by the open night. She's bent over Ben's body.

"It's not working." She screams. She's trying to stop the flow of blood from his body and call the cops at the same time. She bangs her phone onto the cement.

I leave because he's already two and a half quarts down, and his heart isn't beating.

"No, no, no." Angela pleads. I try to ignore her. I can't. But I can ignore the sudden wetness on my cheek.

I'm a few steps from the abandoned pool, when I hear something that turns my blood cold.

"I'm going somewhere." I hear Ben mutter. I'm at the entryway to the pool before I can even blink. I peer into room, trying not to intrude. I know what it's like to lose someone you love. I wish I could have had a few moments with Roman.

"You're not going anywhere." She's holding his face between her hands. The way that she's bent over him, her tears are staining his face.

"Yes, I am." He tells her. He's as white as a sheet, even paler than the Cullen's.

"No." She cries.

My cold dead heart is breaking.

"I think I already died before you got here, but I woke up when I heard your voice." His eyes are dull and lifeless, but there's something hidden behind them. Some spark of life that his body doesn't have any more.

"I love you." He's not crying but Angela is doing enough of that for the both of them.

"I love you too." He tells her, his eyes wide, and I watch as the spark fades out of them.

I'm gone before he draws his last breath.

Angela's sobs haunt me as I leave.

..

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I have murdered one hundred and sixty five people." I'm using a pretty poor fake accent. There aren't any Latino's in Forks, Washington. I hear the man's sharp gasp of breath at my words.

"Do you want to know how I killed them?" I'm looking at his face through the screen partition. It's in a geometric flower pattern.

The confessional shades both of our faces, but I can see his as clearly as if he were standing outside in broad daylight.

"With my bare hands and space teeth." I'm smiling at him through the wall between us. I've dropped the fake accent. He tries to go for the door. He's fast. I'm faster. My hand shoots through leaves and flowers and some thin material that isn't protecting anybody. His neck is in between my grasp before he can say the words, "Bella Swan."

"Forgive me father, for I have completely miscounted." I watch as his face turns purple as he struggles to breathe. "I have murdered one hundred and sixty-six people."

I leave the body of Angela's freshly murdered father in the confessional.

..

AN: So this is really short. I haven't known how I wanted to tie this up. But, I figured you guys have waited long enough. The final chapter should be up soon and so should the Angela POV Epilogue. I'd love to hear what you guys have to think about this chapter. Some things might be confusing, but all, or at least most, will be explained in the Epilogue. THANK YOU, to everyone who reads and/or reviews. I LOVE YOU.


	10. Charlie

C H A P T E R :: N I N E :: C H A R L I E

..

I am not a psychic. So when I start having dreams in which Angela plunges some form of metal shank (the actual weapon changes every time I close my eyes) into my heart, my first reaction is that the thermos from Tanya is spiked.

..

It's Tuesday. It's been a week since I murdered Angela's father. It's been a week since Ben died because of me. I haven't been drinking blood fresh since then. Before, I'd alternated between fresh and stale blood. Now, I only drink it if blood if it's from a bag.

The thing is, when you're alternating between the two, the differences aren't as severe. But drinking out of a bag alone highlights the differences. Mainly that fresh blood, even from someone suffering from anemia or AIDS, couldn't compare to the shit that came from a bag. Most of the draw to eating humans was that their emotions scented their blood. After blood has been removed from the host, the longer it ages, it loses that human touch that makes it _so_ delicious. It loses the salty taste of fear and the sugary sweet taste of arousal.

I often wonder why the human's bother to classify the blood under different types. Once it's been removed from the source there isn't any difference. There's no personalization. There is no spices or flavors.

If you asked twenty different people to make you a steak, you'd get twenty completely different steaks. Maybe some have Johnny's seasoning salt or thyme. Some might have lime or lemon. Some are rib-eyes or t-bones. Steak is just about the least descriptive thing ever. 6oz or 8oz? A1 or no sauce?

This is what blood is like. It's a bunch of different flavors and ingredients, a bunch of different combinations. They're never exactly the same, and some taste better than others, but every carnivorous human being _loves_ steak. Blood and steak, there's another similarity, one that is perhaps more important. You can only refrigerate a steak for so long before it tastes like shit no matter what spices or sauce were used to cook it.

I briefly consider heating the blood up in a coffee mug and add the thermos contents into the mixture like it was sugar or creamer—the same way that the vampires do it in romanticized novels or movies. But blood never tastes good second hand, regardless of its temperature. It's the same way that McDonald's fries last years before decomposing but were completely inedible. Blood was kosher for months after it was taken from the source, it just tasted like shit and made you want to vomit the entire time it descended down your throat.

So instead I tear open one of the packages of blood I've stolen from a variety of different hospitals in Washington and latch my lips onto the cheap plastic, sucking the blood from the bag.

If I concentrate hard enough, I can try to fool myself into believing it's fresh from the source. Whenever I'm feeding from a bag and not warm flesh, I always imagine the Edward look alike from Port Angeles and how _salty _he was.

I let the memory overtake my mind. And it's almost like I can feel the warmth of his body against my own. Feel the way that his blood seemed to be ambrosia from the gods as it gurgled in my mouth and gushed down my throat.

It's easy to forget you're eating shit if you can keep the mental block up. If you can concentrate without fail. Blood streaks down my throat, the package is half torn, and blood leaks down the flimsy plastic container and onto my carpet, but for all I know I'm standing in alley Port Angeles. I couldn't care less about the v-neck tight as hell shirt that Roman bought me that's now stained red. I couldn't care less about how my snow white carpet is fairing against the thick cold liquid.

The sound of the front door slamming shut breaks my concentration. I hadn't even realized that my dad was home until he'd shut the front door. It's why I've been drinking at home these days. The intense concentration it takes to manage to swallow the disgusting substance means that I'm not aware of my surroundings. At all.

And as quickly as the mental block has shielded me from the taste of the stale blood, it's gone and I start heaving. Now that I'm not in that alley in Port Angeles and my body is well aware of the substance it's ingested, it begs me to vomit the substance back up, and I can feel the black bile rise up in my throat in response to its plea. My body caves in on itself and I barely manage to chase down the vile substance with a swig of the mystery blood from the thermos in time to avoid vomiting.

"Bella," Charlie shouts from downstairs. He always waits to call me until he's shed his work clothes in the laundry room and put on a pair of raggedy sweats and a comfortable cotton, scoop neck t-shirt. I'm thankful for the delay. I wouldn't have been able to respond if black liquid was shooting from my throat.

It took Angela all night to rid her linoleum of my vomit and I'd hate to be forced to find out how long the cleaning process consumed if the ruined medium was carpet. Blood wasn't easy to get out either, but Esme had given me several tips, in humor, even though she didn't think I'd ever need to know.

I do, and it's ironic to think of something so completely strange as entirely normal.

..

I spend the entirety of Wednesday at the only cemetery in Forks.

I have never properly grieved for the people that I've loved and lost. Since I am liable to have a plot amongst the graveyard soon, I figure it is time to make my peace.

There's a service for Angela's father at one end of the cemetery. I do not attend it.

"I love you," I whisper into Roman Duda's grave.

And just as quickly as I'm there, I'm gone.

..

There's something about visiting a cemetery, despite being a succubus, that's so completely depressing the only logical follow up is to drink myself into oblivion.

"_Abduction and adduction, right?"_

I pour my blood into one of those BPA free water bottles, because the last thing I need right now is cancer on top of everything else, and I really don't want to spend four hours scrubbing maroon pools out of my carpet. I don't heat it up, there's something equally as fucked up about the texture and consistency of hot blood.

"_Inner and outer."_

It's a double edged sword. The warmth makes it easier to imagine it's come from a human being in the last decade, but as soon as you microwave it, the consistency mutates beyond what's expected from a human source.

I find the texture of cold blood to be less offensive and keep it at a cooler temperature to try and choke it down.

"_But you know what's really important?"_

My back rests against my headboard, my leg warmer encased legs are sprawled out on my bed, and I'm twirling a soft curl between my fingers and occasionally sucking the strand between my lips to get it wet.

The thermos and the water bottle sit on my end table. Some exercise paid advertisement blares from my speakers.

"_Hurdle or sprint. That's huge."_

"_Say I wanna do just my hip flexors or my buttocks even more. I do what's called digging. I use this for a lot of swimwear models."_

I'm not sure if it's mystery blood or the stale blood I've been drinking lately, but I have been having psychic visions. I am not a psychic. So the prophetic dreams start haunting me when I close my eyes, it's my first clue that something is wrong.

"_Very, very, very important."_

Tonight, I can't help but think, will be my last night on this earth.

"_How about Butt Squeeze?"_

I want to go out with a bang. I choke down my bottle of O neg. It's as flavorless and disgusting as one would expect food to taste after months of being refrigerated.

"_Yeah, I see you wanted to touch."_

After the bottle is gone, I toss it somewhere in my closet. I don't even care where it lands. I know, deep inside of myself, that I will not live long enough to care about what happens to that dirty water bottle filled with blood.

"_Not this show! Not touching this show!"_

I grab the thermos from my nightstand and take slow gentle sips before blood lust takes over and I devour the container in a single gulp. The thing about this mystery blood is that despite having spent only God knows how long in the fridge, it tastes wonderful, at least in comparison to human slushees. It's not nearly as good as a happy meal on wheels, but after drinking down a glass of pure _shit_ it's pretty damn close.

"_Okay. And of course-"_

I turn off the TV and groan. I just want to lie in my bed and enjoy the complete and utter bliss of being filled to the brim with something that my body isn't rejecting.

The thing about feeding, is that it shouldn't be prolonged. It's why James and Victoria got into so much shit. They liked to play with their food. Blood is public enemy number one. It distracts you. It keeps you from noticing what's really important.

Like Angela Webber. In my room. With a box cutter.

"Best friends forever, huh?" She seethes. She's practically foaming at the mouth. "You killed my fucking boyfriend, you goddamn monster!"

I'm shocked. I really, really, shouldn't be. I've had these feelings for a while now. But feeding takes the edge off everything and dulls the senses. I should have heard her coming a mile away, but I didn't. Honestly, if she manages to kill me than it's Darwinism.

"You dumb bitch!" She screeches and attacks me on my bed. "You know what this is for? Huh?" I'm shit when it comes to rhetorical questions so I convert the sloshing in my stomach to defense techniques instead. Angela momentarily stills, her body straddling my own. "It's for cutting boxes."

"Do you buy all of your murder weapons at Home Depot?" I question.

She doesn't answer, she's too shocked to form words. Sometime during our conversation we've began hovering five feet over my bed. She recovers from her shock quickly, much quicker than I do.

In the back of mind, a nagging sensation over whelms me and I can't help but wonder if I've been waiting around for her to put me out of my misery. I haven't done much to stop her. I haven't created any preemptive attacks. I've been lounging around all week, except for my detour to the cemetery.

She yanks my BFF locket from around my neck. My locket falls, taking hair in its wake. The thing is that Angela got me that locket when we were five. She found it in the sandbox. I guess the phrase is finders keepers though.

I don't even fight as she attempts to pin me down. We are hovering five feet over my bed and she is unsuccessful. She is successful, however, in sending our bodies spiraling towards my mattress. We hit with a thud, her shank ruining the purple comforter Charlie purchased for me as a Welcome to Forks present. I don't even like purple, but my first reaction is to bite the hand with the shank in it anyways. The blood I consumed earlier does nothing to quell my thirst when Angela's hand starts leaking.

I only manage gulps of fluid before she is yanking her arm back and stabbing me in the chest.

"Cross out Bella Swan," she shouts, the box cutter piercing deep into my flesh.

It turns out Angela Webber wasn't as quite as she thought. Charlie walks in the moment I start gargling up blood. His uniform is half on, half off. He's still got on his wife beater, but he isn't wearing the FPD regulation navy blue shirt. His pants are unbuttoned, but the zipper is all the way up.

Charlie waiting until he's out of uniform before checking shouting "Bella" up the stairs, is the absolute worst thing that's ever happened to me. What's worse is that I didn't even hear him come home. I am the most terrible succubus _ever_.

For all the succubus powers that fail me in my final moments, there's one that threads me to reality steadfastly: the ability to ignore everything that's happening in the present and transport myself to some other memory.

Angela yanked the box cutter out of my tit. My wound, its gushing blood the way that all punctures do when you yank out the object that plunged into your body.

The problem is, that my succubus powers are somewhat flawed. I can only maintain the grasp when I have firm concentration.

It's enough to rid the pain, but it's not enough to take me someplace else entirely. I'm still here. I'm still watching the blood gush from my wound.

I tell Angela that I love her anyways. I tell her how we always kill the thing we love. I tell her how badly I wanted to kill her when I met her. When the new me met her.

She might be a bitch and my BFF necklace might be strewn somewhere in my room along with that damn water bottle, but she was my best friend. We're all victims of circumstance and I know that I can't blame her for this. I can't blame her for her actions.

I understand. Truly, I do. I'm the one that murdered her father.

Charlie yanks her off the bed, sending her flying into my floor length mirror. It shatters. Gargling up blood, all I can think is that's seven years of bad luck over a stupid little mirror.

Charlie is hovering over me, shaking my shoulders. I admire the way his hair looks. He's using the eighty dollar shampoo I bought him for Christmas. I tell him I love him. I tell him what I told Angela. I admire the way the blood I gargle up makes the tips of his shiny hair look tinted red. It's a good color on him.

Charlie's grasping my hand. Charlie has resigned himself to comfort. Charlie knows that I will not survive the chest wound inflected upon me, his eyes gleam with threatening tears.

Something that helps, to ignore the pain, to ignore this reality is to concentrate on seemingly insignificant things.

Angela peels a piece of glass out of her face. The thing about head wounds is that they don't stop bleeding. Red streaks down her face, her neck, her blouse.

I tell her I know a guy. I tell her Carlisle would have stitched that up for her. But that the hospital he works at in California have never heard of him. I tell her his phone number has been disconnected.

I tell her I know a girl. I tell her Alice would know how to remove the blood from her clothing. But Alice's number has been disconnected as well. Alice forgot to give me her new email address when she stopped using her old one.

Gargling and choking up blood I tell her how we always kill the ones we love.

Charlie, he's looking at me. Charlie with his streaked cheeks and gleaming eyes. Charlie he's telling me that it's going to be OK. Telling me to stay with him, to stay here. To stay in this moment. Because all it takes is a second. All it takes is a single blink of my eyes not to open them again.

I tell Charlie to tell me a story. I tell Charlie to distract me.

Charlie's looking into my eyes and telling me the story of how he and my mom met. How he was a rookie when it happened. How my mom was held at gunpoint; how my mom was almost raped. How he stopped the guy before he could lay a finger on my mother. How he carried my mother to the hospital in his arms.

Charlie's looking into my eyes and telling me how I'll finally be with Roman Duda. How he knew we'd be together forever when he found me in Roman's arms at Forks General. How he knew I'd be safe when he saw the look on Roman Duda's face. The same look he tells me was sure to have been on his face when he laid eyes on my mother.

I smile at him, a big toothy smile. Blood running down my chin. Gargling up blood. I smile up at my dad. He's smiling back.

You can swallow a pint of blood before you get sick. I think that I have bigger problems than swallowing a pint of blood.

Angela is wailing into her chest. Flailing her arms. Flinging snot and blood and tears with every swipe of her hands.

My dad is smiling at me, telling me it's going to be OK. Telling me he loves me. Telling me my mom loves me.

And I just smile at him, a big toothy smile.

And I blink, and I never open my eyes.

..

AN: So we are at the end. Only the Angela POV epilogue left. This was the first chapter that I finished for this story, so it's a little weird reading it now… I did add a lot to this chapter to bulk it up, because Salty was pretty short in comparison to the other chapters (except for maybe the prologue) and I didn't want this chapter to be short as well. This was going to be posted yesterday, but I added a lot of new content since then. Hopefully the differences in writing styles between the older and the newer stuff isn't too distracting to read. Thank you to everyone who reads and reviews. I love you all! :D


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